Stoic Decay

1.

Three crows flew past overhead, silent and black. Agan Gignoskein smiled. It was a good sign. At close range three was the number of perfection: once in the heart, twice in the head. The old man standing beside Gignoskein, this job’s Politician, gestured nervously with long fingers, “Does that,” he asked, “have one of those contraptions to keep it silent?”

Gignoskein shook his head, not looking at the firearm in his hand. “They do not work as well as you probably think. But that is irrelevant. A gunshot should never be hidden. It is like a woman’s face.”

“But you said there are more guards up at the house? Surely they will come running.”

“If they are outside – which they most likely will not be – yes. But anyways we should be away before-”

The Politician, the old man, jerked forward, causing sand to cover the tips of his shoes. “You were told to wait- he- that I would tell you when he was to die? That I have to speak to him before? You were told?”

Gignoskein nodded, then pointed with a rigid finger up the strand of beach on which they stood. “From the estate to the stairs that give access to the shore is a six minute walk; from the stairs to here is another nine. In total, at a run… seven minutes, possibly six.” He glanced at his watch. “He will pass this way in the next half hour if he does not deviate from his normal schedule: A quick walk on the beach after breakfast. You will have fifteen minutes in which to speak with him. After that his failure to return will grow increasingly apparent.”

The Politician scratched at his chin. “Fifteen minutes – if – we are unheard.” He took a few steps away, shaded his eyes with both hands, though the sun was hidden by clouds, and stared out at the sea. Minutes passed. He dropped his arms. “A woman’s face, eh? You know you are not the sort of man I thought your boss would employ. He seemed to me to be a bit of a crass bastard. If you’ll excuse my saying so.”

“He is not a good man, and neither am I. It’s as simple as that.”

“I do not think it is. For I would wager your boss does believe himself to be a good man who on occasion does bad things.”

“He is a predator, as am I. Whether he believes himself basically good while I believe we are both bad, the result is the same.”

The Politician, the old man, nodded and again shaded his eyes. The ocean waves held nothing for him, neither did the sand or the overcast sky. He turned to Gignoskein and said in a hoarse whisper, “Do not kill the guard.”

Gignoskein smiled broadly. “A man who carries a gun and does not expect a bullet is a fool and a coward. If he pulls a gun I will kill him. If he raises his arms I will let him live.”

“But even if he pulls a gun-”

“What? Shoot it out of his hand. This is not a movie. Why do you think policemen are trained to shoot to kill, not incapacitate, not disarm, kill?”

“I don’t know,” the old man said irritably, “because they’re strike-breaking cowards?”

“Because a breathing man can pull a trigger.”

“Look, I’m paying so-”

“Quiet. Into the cove. Now. Further. Quickly. Two figures approach.”

2.

The guard did not raise his hands. Now he could no longer raise his hands. Blood trickled from a hole in his forehead. The Lamb, a man ten years older than the Politician, sat dazed on the bloody sand beside the dead Shepherd. Gignoskein smiled. It was rare for the Lamb, the Politician, and the Wolf to come together during the course of a job. Politician sends Wolf to Lamb, that was usual. This was different, which was dangerous. Gignoskein pulled a red handkerchief from his pocket, waved it at the sea, and said, “If that was heard you have only three minutes, if not: fifteen. Proceed as if we were unlucky. Hurry.”

The Politician clenched his jaw, the loose skin on his neck pulling tight. He turned and looked down at the Lamb. “You know me?” he said.

The Lamb shook his head, his mouth moving like a panting dog, the spots of old age quivering on his chin and cheek.

The Politician leaned forward. “You do know me.”

The Lamb shook his head.

“Sixty-two years ago you caused a great man to die. A man of the human heart. You killed him for something he wrote and would not change in the final chapter of a book. Do you know me now?”

The Lamb’s mouth fell open, lifted in a smile, came to rest in a scowl. “The illustrator. The puppy with the pen.” He clapped his hands on his knees. “That drunkard! He went to you. He had the wits to find you. I had thought him too dull. He always threatened he would. For twenty years he threatened and for twenty years I bought him off with a bottle or two of gut-eater. The shit-coddle. I should have put him away long ago.”

“One minute gone,” Gignoskein said, watching the far end of the beach.

“Yes, he came to me, the drunken brute, the pale murderer. He told me everything, at least all he knew, for a handful of coins. How-”

“Then you know we did not mean to kill him. You must know that.” He looked with slow understanding at the dead man beside him. “Please, I just wanted a few bruises. Please, I could not publish what he wrote, I could not. He was old and that drunkard hit him too hard. It was not meant to happen. He would not listen, spitting about principle and freedom. Men from the government, Bendle’s men were visiting my office every day with threat after threat. They would’ve shut the whole press down if I’d published the final chapter as he wrote it. We all would have been thrown in prison, yourself included. And for what? Bendle, his whole movement fell apart less than a year later. What good would it have done to denounce him. And it had no place there anyway. It was a work of fiction, made to entertain, it-”

“Time’s up,” Gignoskein said, “the shot was heard.”

The Politician looked to the far end of the beach. Three tiny figures had appeared. “I need more time,” he said.

Gignoskein turned seaward. A small boat was motoring toward them. “You have until the boat comes ashore.”

“That’s not enough!”

“For what?” the Lamb said, his hands clawing at the bloody sand. “For what? Please!”

The Politician glared at Gignoskein. “We’ll take him with us then.”

Gignoskein shook his head. “That was not planned for and is not acceptable.”

“Then change the plan, change it.”

“You have half a minute.”

“Stuff your cock in blades!” the Politician said. And with an abrupt turn he kicked the Lamb in the face. “How did it end? Tell me!”

The Lamb rolled on the sand. “Please, please, I don’t understand.”

“What happened to Alice?” the Politician said, kicking the Lamb in the groin. “Who won the duel under the ring gate? Tell me!”

Gignoskein stared at the three figures at the end of the beach. They were no longer tiny. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the small dinghy hit shallow water. “Decide,” he said, unsure whether he was being heard. “Do I kill him or go without you?”

The Politician shook his head and then spit in the sand. “Go then! Go! I have to know.”

Gignoskein jogged to the dinghy. As he jumped inside, dripping water from his shins and feet, the man at the motor tipped his cap. “What about the geezer?”

“He’s not coming. Move along.” The dinghy, rocked by waves that were not large, turned in a slow curve and headed out to sea.

3.

“Where’s my case?” Gignoskein said, as the captain of the boat helped him from the dinghy.

“Below. I’ll get it.”

Gignoskein leaned against the boat’s railing, lifted a pair of binoculars. On the beach the Politician was crouched over the Lamb. Was he talking or listening? The question was no longer pertinent. The three guards had arrived. They dragged the Politician up and away, striking him once or twice. The Lamb stood, limped forward, attempted a feeble kick, fell over. One of the guards helped him to his feet. A moment of stillness. The Lamb nodded his head. One guard held the Politician while the other started to beat him.

“Here it is,” the captain of the boat said, trading the binoculars for the case. Gignoskein snapped the latches and lifted a sniper rifle free.

“Not a chance in a hundred,” the captain of the boat said.

Gignoskein knelt, positioned the rubber-tipped bipod on the boat’s railing, and sighted through the scope. The beating had ceased. The Politician lay crumpled on the sand. Gignoskein wondered vaguely if his questions had been answered. The Lamb came into view. He was wagging his finger as though he were lecturing a child.

Gignoskein waited. The Lamb backed away. Stillness. A guard moved forward taking aim. The muzzle of his gun flashed twice, the sound of the shots drowned by the sea. The Politician moved, twisted, and then did not move. The Lamb stepped near and knelt down. He prodded the dead flesh. No movement. The Lamb looked up, his face centered and triumphant. Gignoskein pulled the trigger.

The captain of the boat lowered his binoculars. “Nice shot,” he said.